QSFer Kim Fielding has a new space opera out: Potential Energy.
When interstellar smuggler Haz Taylor loses his ship, his money, and his tattered reputation, drinking himself to death on a backwater planet seems like his only option. Then the Coalition offers him a contract to return a stolen religious artifact. Sounds simple enough, but politics can be deadly—and the artifact’s not enthusiastic about being returned.
Haz didn’t sign up to be prisoner transport, but he’s caught between a blaster and hard vacuum. Still, that doesn’t mean he can’t show his captive some kindness. It costs him nothing to give Mot the freedom to move about the ship, to eat when he’s hungry… to believe that he’s a person. It’s only until they reach Mot’s planet. Besides, the Coalition would hate it, which is reason enough.
Then he finds out what awaits Mot at home, and suddenly hard vacuum doesn’t look so bad. Haz is no hero, but he can’t consign Mot to his fate. Somewhere under the space grime, Haz has a sliver of principle. It’s probably going to get him killed, but he doesn’t have much to live for anyway….
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Excerpt
Even in civvies, she obviously didn’t belong in this dump. She was too clean, clear-eyed, and straight-backed. Too glowing with purpose and determination. She marched across the floor of the bar as if she owned the place—except if she did own it, the bar would be well lit and orderly, and the patrons would be a hell of a lot classier.
Haz wouldn’t have guessed she would show up, but he somehow wasn’t surprised. Maybe he’d unconsciously expected this for a long time. The only question was whether she’d arrest him or simply blast him where he sat.
When she reached his table at the back of the room, she pulled out a chair, settled in, and stared at him, stone-faced. She’d aged since he’d seen her last: a few new lines around her narrow mouth, hair steel-gray now and worn in a practical buzz cut.
Haz drained his glass in one swallow and waved to the barkeep for another. He turned back to his companion.
“To what do I owe the honor, Colonel Kasabian?”
“In fact, it’s Brigadier General Kasabian.”
The same clipped tones he remembered, as if she were rationing oxygen.
“Gratulálok!” He raised his empty glass in a mock toast.
The bartender squelched over, their plantar suction cups noisy on the tile floor. They set down Haz’s refill and looked expectantly at Kasabian. At least Haz assumed the look might be expectant; it was hard to read a craqir’s face, especially when some of the eight eyes were staring in other directions. Craqirs were unable to speak Comlang due to their beaks and lack of tongue, and this one rarely bothered to use the translator on their biotab.
“I don’t suppose you have any true gin.” Even when she spoke, Kasabian’s mouth remained slightly pursed.
The craqir shook their head, and Haz provided a more complete answer.
“They have a synth version that makes a decent paint stripper. Order the yinex vodka instead, cut fifty-fifty with water. Still tastes like shit, but it won’t eat away your stomach lining.”
She gave his glass—synth whiskey straight up—a significant look and nodded at the craqir, who returned to the bar.
“Major Taylor—”
“Uh-uh. They busted me all the way down to staff sergeant, remember? But don’t call me that either because I’m a civilian—have been for a long time now.”
She narrowed her eyes. “All right. Captain Taylor, then.”
“Nope. I don’t have a ship. No ship, no captain. I’m just plain old Mister Taylor nowadays. But you can call me Haz. You’ve called me that once or twice before.”
He shifted in his seat and straightened his quasar-cursed leg, but the ache didn’t dissipate, so he drank a slug of synth whiskey instead. It didn’t help with the pain, but when he was drunk enough, he stopped caring.
“I was told you do have a ship.”
He didn’t ask for her source. She had hundreds of rats and moles stashed all over the galaxy, which had probably contributed to her promotion.
“Outdated info. My ship got banged up on my last run, and I can’t afford to fix her. She’s rotting in dry dock. Unless they’ve already stripped her for parts.”
He couldn’t help a sigh. The Dancing Molly had served him well and deserved a better fate.
The craqir returned quickly with Kasabian’s drink and one for Haz. It was why he came to this particular dump: the barkeep never kept him waiting. He drained his current glass and started on the next, impressed that Kasabian managed a decent swig of hers without making a face.
“How are you making a living without a ship?”
Haz grinned and shrugged.
She watched him for the several minutes it took for him to finish off the latest drink, try to find a less uncomfortable position for his leg, and wait for her to either tell her story or walk away. Or arrest him, if that was her goal. Maybe she’d just shoot him, ending his troubles and hers. Finally she started tapping a rhythm on the metal table with her fingernail, making it ring hollowly. He remembered that she liked music. She used to plan battles while playing Earth songs from a few hundred years ago, a genre that was, for reasons unclear to Haz, called heavy metal. Maybe she was thinking of one of those tunes while she tapped.
At least she hadn’t drawn a weapon and didn’t seem inclined to. If she had intended to shoot him, she would have done it by now; she wasn’t the type to mess around. But if she didn’t want him dead, what did she want?
“I have a contract to offer you,” she said at last. Well, that answered his question.
He raised his eyebrows. “A contract? Not a jail cell?”
“I’m willing to overlook some past… indiscretions. If you accept the mission.”
“I have no sh—”
“It pays enough for you to lease one.”
He crossed his arms. “I don’t borrow.”
He didn’t trust anyone else’s ship. Besides, who the hell would be stupid enough to put their equipment into his hands?
“Then fix yours.”
His heart skipped a few beats at that option. Losing Molly had been like having a limb hacked off. Worse, maybe. He’d have happily traded his bad leg for his ship.
As if sensing Haz’s thoughts, Kasabian gestured in the general direction of his lower body.
“Why haven’t you seen a doctor about that?”
“Believe me, those bastards have had their way with me plenty of times.” He shook his head. “They’ve reached the limits of flesh and bone.”
“Then replace it,” she said. As if getting a new leg was as easy as getting a fresh drink.
“I don’t have that kind of money. And the szotting navy won’t give me a single credit.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone.
She nodded briskly. “This contract will give you enough to cover your medical costs as well as repair your ship. You’ll have enough for running expenses too. And a salary for your crew.”
Kasabian leaned back in her chair, apparently pleased with her offer.
Author Bio
Kim Fielding has migrated back and forth across the western two-thirds of the United States and currently lives in California. She’s a university professor who dreams of being able to travel and write full-time. She also dreams of having two perfectly-behaved children, a husband who isn’t obsessed with football, and a house that cleans itself. Some dreams are more easily obtained than others.